


Been There, Done That

by Hekate1308



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:33:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She recognizes the symptoms, and how could she not? She's lived with them for over ten years now, even if she wasn't the one experiencing them. Clara, Post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Been There, Done That

She recognizes the symptoms, and how could she not? She's lived with them for over ten years now, even if she wasn't the one experiencing them.

She's always been fond of her brother-in-law; sometimes, when Harry had one of her... episodes and she was stuck in the middle, trying to keep her from buying another bottle, locking her in her room at one point to help her, she wished, desperately wished, to be straight so she could fall in love with John Watson instead. Nice, loyal, dependable John Watson, even though he must have inherited some wild streak too, otherwise he wouldn't have enlisted.

He made sure to be at her and Harry's wedding, however, and she stills remembers how happy they were then. Harry had given up drinking or a while (she had insisted she did so before they married), John was going off to fulfil his dreams, things looked good.

And then Harry started drinking again and, in the end, left her for another woman who supported her habit instead of trying to help her. She let her go; she was tired of fighting. They had loved one another once; she wouldn't deny it, not even now, not even after the fights and the screams and the tears. They had something good once – and then Clara lost it to a bottle. She'd let Harry go because she'd realized she deserved better, so much better. Better than someone who tried to pry the bottle from her grasp even when she was no longer able to form comprehensive sentences; better than someone who blamed her for taking the alcohol away.

That didn't mean it didn't hurt her when she learned Harry had given her phone – her last birthday present – to John, but at least she had a way of keeping in contact with him.

It didn't mean she couldn't stay friends with John either. Quite in the contrary. He called her now and then, they met up for dinner. And she read his blog.

She knew he was searching for a flat, and she would have been glad to help him, if only she could have. But she didn't have much money, and the flat she'd moved into after Harry broke up with her was barely big enough for herself.

But his problem of finding a flat wasn't what had her concerned. No, it was his depression.

His therapist might not call it depression, he might deny it, but Clara knew, just looking at him, that he felt alone and useless thought he had no future, and that was definitely a depression in her book.

She tried to talk to and see him as often she could, but it became clear soon enough that he needed something different –

He needed a new purpose in life.

While he didn't support or even like the war, her former brother-in-law – at this point, when she and Harry hadn't got a divorce yet, her brother-in-law still – craved the excitement he had left behind in Afghanistan. At first, she hoped he would meet a nice woman, settle down, forget about it.

Because there was no way he could find this excitement in London. Should he find a job as a doctor – which she doubted, considering his limp and shaking hand – even that wouldn't fulfil him. Treating colds wasn't what most people would call "excitement". So, after a while, she despaired.

As it turned out, she had given up hope too early, because he met Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes gave him everything he needed. She read his blog again and again, but other than Harry, who still called her when drunk (it felt like a stab in the heart every time, she had loved her once, before her addiction chipped away her life piece by piece), she didn't think their friendship dangerous. No, she thought it was the best thing that could have happened to John, which was why she listened to him with a smile when he called to vent about his annoying flatmate, knowing that he would hang up and go back to Baker Street soon enough, off to the next adventure.

Until the articles were published. The articles she still has a hard time believing were ever printed, because, after all the people Sherlock Holmes helped, after all the people he saved, after all the cases he solved, how could anyone think he was a fraud? She can't understand it, and she never will.

She was more angry at Kitty Riley than she could say, and she is angry still. The woman destroyed the best relationship (yes, relationship; she as a lesbian knows it doesn't always mean you have to sleep with someone) her brother-in-law ever had, and sometimes, the temptation to pick up the phone and tell her just what she thinks of her is still great, so very great. But she doesn't, because it won't bring him back.

And she's starting to fear it's the only thing that could heal John, to bring him back. Three months in, and his limp – the limp that reappeared shortly after he had visited his (he still hasn't said his name in their conversations, he always says "he") grave – is not getting better. He's moved out of the flat that meant so much to him and he is withdrawing from all his friends. She knows this because, when she tried to visit him the other day, he didn't open, even though she heard him walk around in his flat.

She knows she can't help him, and yet she has to try, because –

Because that's what she does, and because she recognized the symptoms as soon as they appeared.

John Watson is suffering through withdrawal. He was addicted to his friend, to Sherlock Holmes, his craziness, his personality, his cases, the whirlwind their lives were. And now this is all gone, and he doesn't know what do with himself, just like he didn't when he returned from Afghanistan, but she feels that now, it's worse. Because now, he knows what he could have, what he should have, and what was taken away from him.

She really wishes she could so something, anything, but she can't, so she just keeps calling.

One day, Harry calls. She's not sure whether to pick up or not, but she does, eventually. She's curious. She's just human, after all.

As it turns out, Harry wants to know how John is doing because he doesn't pick up the phone when she calls, and Clara really really wants to tell her why but keeps her mouth shut. Fighting won't do any good. So she simply says "He's grieving" and ends the conversation soon after.

Because there is nothing else to say. He is grieving and he will be grieving for a long while.

He loved Sherlock Holmes. And no, she doesn't think he loved him like she loved Harry. But he still loved him, and it isn't easy, getting over people you loved. She should know. She has done it enough times, by now.

So she keeps calling and coming by, trying to get him to open the door.

And one day, just as she is leaving, he does.

She turns around slowly and looks at him.

He looks awful; he has lost weight and there are dark circles under his eyes. He hasn't shave in a few days and he's gripping his cane as if it's the only thing holding him up, and maybe he is.

She doesn't say any of this. She simply says, "John".

He answers "Harry" and lets her in, and one look in his empty flat is enough to break her heart,

She stays, though, she stays and tells him about her new job and the co-worker who asked her out the other day, anything to fill the silence he has been living in ever since Sherlock went away.

And, then, finally, when they have two steaming mugs before them, she sees he is about to break, like any addict who has gone through withdrawal for too long.

She braces herself.

He doesn't cry. Then again, he's a soldier. Instead, he begins with, "About Sherlock..." And doesn't stop talking for three hours. She doesn't interrupt him.

Because she can't fix him. But she can be there for him. And he will understand, because just like she knows what he's going through, so is he. He has seen it too, after all, with Harry.

So they don't talk about him, only about Sherlock, the whole time, and she hopes, desperately hopes, that it may be enough. That he might heal in time.

But for now, all she can do is listen, just like she's always done.

And for once, she might even do some good while doing so.


End file.
